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The Rooster Knight
"From the mountains of Redridge.. to the plains of Arathor and back again. I know no rest, no quarter, and no fear. For a knight's work is never done. To protect and serve the realm and those who reside in it. This is my vow." ''- Theodore Crawelen'' Humble Beginnings Theodore began his story like most men of his time in Stromgarde, born to the lower caste of blacksmiths and peasantry. Going through his youth under the apprenticeship of his father and the local smithing guild, he'd quickly earn his hammer and place among their ranks. He'd often spent his personal time practicing the blade in secret, hoping to keep his hobby away from the prying eyes of Beggar's Row and their gossip-mongering tendencies. Training hard for many years, he continued his goals to become more than Smith's boy. Upon his sixteenth summer would the city hold it's annual hunt, a chance to 'break away' from your caste and prove yourself as a warrior to the Stromic People. it was this day he'd sneak away during the early morning, signing the roster as "Rooster"; A nickname his brother had given him for being lanky and loud. With his moniker chosen and sword in hand, he'd join the hunt. The Hunt The hunt took place on the Arathi plains, deep in the hills heading east, towards the Orc work camp. After the celebrations were done, they'd often toss the bodies to the Greenskins and let them handle the mess. He'd become excited, his goal to slay the largest Troll he could find. Truly a goal worthy of a man born of the blood of Strom, he thought. They'd ride into Hammerfall, his gaze lowering towards the sullen faces of the Orcs who'd mill about the work yards like husks. He'd feel pity for them, almost sympathizing their plight, but the clout of a leather-clad hand to his ear tore his attention back ahead, steering his mule forward. The Commandant giving him a stern look of disapproval. "They aren't worth the worry, boy. They are lesser beings." ''Those words clouded his thoughts as they'd reach the staging yards of the greater hamlet outside Hammerfall. Sons of knights and other youthful members of the kingdom alike were here, all prepared to win the competition and gain the favor of the King's court. To be taken as a squire under a knight. The ideal fantasy for a boy. "All riders! Mount up!" The sound of a war-horn filled the air, snapping him back to his senses. Most lads had bows and hounds, the richer folks. He'd frown deeply, gaze lingering down to only the blade at his hip. ''"On my MARK!" The Commandant began to holler. "Get se-!" However, he'd never finish his sentence. The shouting of the guard meshed with the warning drums. The Changing of Seasons "THE ORCS ARE RIOTIN'!" Someone screamed from the ranks. Panic and chaos quickly broke out as smoke began to rise up from the work camp and the village square. Most of the boys participating in the hunt seemingly dispersed or fled as the riot grew more out of hand and spread into the staging ground. Theodore had never seen an Orc until now, only hearing about them in stories, but they were fierce, as fierce and brutal as the battle had been told to him in the taverns. Men in full armor seemingly tossed to the side like bags of flour, breaking their spines on trees and posts as the raging Orcs broke past the ranks of the guard. It was a small uprising, but well planned. The Orcs seemed to guard a group of women and children, pushing their way to the edge of the ground. Towards Theodore. He'd feel his hand shake as he'd get off the horse and collect himself. Only a few boys remained near him, most in shock and barely moving. "They aren't worth the worry, boy. They are lesser beings." ''The words whispered through his thoughts as he'd lock eyes with the Orc leading the escapees. The Greenskin was a youth, as were most of the Orcs guarding the women and children. ''"Stop!" He'd managed to shout, pointing the blade's tip toward the Orc. "I don't wish to hurt you, but I will not h-hesitate to fight!" ''The words came as a stutter. Feeling the fear of death loom over him as the Orc "leader" slowed and faced him. The guard of the village too busy with the fires and the other rampaging Orcs to be of much aid to the young smith at the moment. ''"Brave, but stupid." The Orc grunted simply, green eyes set upon Theodore with rage, armed only with a rather large post he'd of taken from the ground and began to use as a club. "I fight you, boy. We go free." Theodore felt that pain of sympathy in his chest, these people were suppose to just be fodder -- slaves -- why was this so hard? "I -- I can't let you do that." He'd harden his stance in the mossy dirt. "I must fight -you-." The emphasis was pronounced and clear. "I will fight you." ''The Orc released a sigh, nodding towards the group to continue. Theodore shook as the crowd ran pass him and into the forest, leaving only him and the Orc. 'Blood and Thunder' They now stood three yards apart. Smoke now clouding the sky as the fire spread in the village and blotted out the sun. He'd feel ill, the adrenaline over saturating his body, causing him to sweat profusely and pant. The Orc however looked unphased. Theodore could see the broken spirit in his face, the green eyes full of pain and rage. To the Orc, he was just another oppressor. A master to be opposed. The thought was drowned by the war-cry of the Orc, now charging him and taking a wide sweep with the club. The young smith would snap-to and take a calculated step back, heel clipping a root and he'd feel crush of the club against his bones. Pain. Awful pain. But the adrenaline drowned it out. His sword-hand still steady and the short blade light enough to wield without effort as he'd squirm to the side and without hesitation and thinking stab the blade's point up under the Orc's armpit. The warm splash of blood covered his face and cloak as they'd topple over into the dirt and the Orc howled, grabbing Theodore by the scruff of his neck and tossing him away. In a final act of desperation, the smith had severed a main artery by sheer luck and the Orc was quickly bleeding out. Theodore rolled into the dirt and felt the pain begin to set in his right arm. ''"Lok'tar.. Ogar.." The Orc croaked out as he'd lay against some rocks, blood pooling around him as he'd tear out the blade and toss it aside, causing more gore to flow. The Smith would approach the dying Orc, falling to his knees and feeling a great sadness swell up in his chest. "I-- I'm sorry.." He'd speak in a whisper, hand resting on the Orc's shoulder as his life passed before his eyes. Spoils of War Theodore didn't really know how long he'd sit in the hamlet with the Orc. It could of been minutes.. hours.. He'd not care. The rationalization of taking a life burdening his thoughts greatly. The smoke seemed to subside above him and become a soft grey, no longer blotting out the sky. "Oi! He's over 'ere, lads!" The guard had been scouring the staging area's wreckage and collecting the scattered youth from the event. The Commandant was with this unit. "Rooster! Ya' alright. boy?!" He'd shout, now near enough to see both the blood-soaked youth and the corpse of the Orc. "Bloody 'ell, lad..." The Commandant would kneel next to Theodore and rest a hand on his shoulder. "Ya' did good, Rooster. And by the looks o' it, ya' are the only one who managed to cut one o' them down out o' yer' whole lot." It was a joke to them. Taking life. It'd sicken Theodore, only managing a twisted and sad smile in return to the Commandant. "C'mon, let's get ya' back to the village. I think a hero like yer'self deserves a reward!" As they stood and began to move, he'd look back towards the Orc's corpse, watching in horror as the guard would let their hounds loose. Silent horror as the beasts ripped the corpse limb from limb. This wasn't victory. It wasn't honor. He wasn't a hero. A Hero's "Reward" He'd be loaded onto a cart with some of the other boys from the competition. Most covered in dirt and shaken up from the commotion, others severely wounded and lurched over against the wooden railing. They'd be sent back to the capital -immediately-. He'd feel an emptiness in his gut as they'd pass through the almost hollow streets of Hammerfall, blood and corpses of Orcs were strewn across the streets. Most of the bodies were of Orc women and children, other were of their elders, all too slow to escape. The emptiness turned to phsyical ailment as he'd lean over the cart's edge and vomit, feeling weak from the surge of adrenaline finally exiting his system. Another boy clasped him on the shoulder and held him back from falling off the cart, then darkness began to cloud his vision as he'd quickly pass out. He'd awake to cold rain pelting his face. The cart had come to a stop at the inner gate of Stromgarde and the boys would be filtered off one-by-one, when it came to his turn to be escorted, a pair of strong hands gripped his shoulders and settled him into the mud. The helping hand would offer support as he'd wobble a bit and get his footing. "Are you going to be alright, son?" He'd gain his vision, the blurriness leaving him, now staring directly into his father's eyes. Terror filled him, almost as much as when he watch the Orc be savaged. "I-- I'm so sorry, father.. I didn't.. I didn't mean to disobey. I wanted to make you proud.." ''Firm hands grasped his jawline and pulled his face into a leathery apron. ''"I'm just glad you're alright. You've a summons at the keep -- the guard told me they collected you, we'll talk afterwards." ''Confusion riddled his expression as yet another hand would grab his shoulder and tear him from his father. ''"C'mon. They be waitin' on ya'." The surly guard grunted and would continue onwards, dragging Theodore's heels through the mud as he'd watch his father stand in the rain and slowly fade out of view. Stromgarde Keep was a illustrious place of marble and beauty, unlike anything he'd ever seen before. A place of royalty and history. His people's testament to the world that they were the strongest. Unfaltering. Strom. He'd be cleaned up and given a new cloak, now ushered into a large room with a long table. Around it sat a few men -- yet, not only mere men -- knights. He'd fumble his feet and words all at once. "Sirs.. I--- I.. It's an honor.." He'd begin to speak, but the oldest man at the head of the table would raise his hand and grunt. "Silence, boy." ''The Knight's voice demanded respect, and he'd abide, now becoming extremely silent. ''"It is said you lied to join the hunt. You know peasantry aren't allowed in the celebrations without a pardon by the court.. Don't you?" '' Theodore felt the color drain from his face as the realization set in that he broke a direct law of the Court. He went outside his caste without pardon. A severely punishable act. The pillory..? No.. Stretching..? He'd not know what fate lay before him. But after what felt like forever, the old knight would grin, the laugh he'd produce was low and chalky and the rest of the men at the table soon joined in. ''"You've got fire in your blood, boy. We hear you slayed one of the riot's leaders. One on one combat. Orc verse a peasant. -Quite- the tale, don't ya' think, lads?" He'd snort and look around the table, but eventually settled his grey stare back upon Theodore. The laughter soon dying down around him and the room would once again don an aura of seriousness. "I am Sir Horace Redmayne. I will be your master. You will learn. You will fight. You will bare the Mark and you will repent for your transgressions against the Crown's law by service. That is your punishment." The young smith was speechless. This was indeed something he always dreamed of -- adventure, training, being a squire to a knight -- but was this how he wanted to gain it? Through punishment? To be a mark-bearer? Those of the mark being lesser than the peasantry. "I will serve you.. S-Sir Redmayne." He'd just bow his head, feeling some pain in his arm from where the club had struck. "I--." He'd choke the words out, but the pain stabbed at him again, causing him to buckle. Sir Horace would then stand, as did a few other knights. But the world faded to black again, not used to the pain, his body finally began to give out under the stress. ''The Fall of Man ''"Theodore." Sir Horace grunted. Giving him a firm shake. "C'mon, lad. We're almost to Stratholme." With a groan Theo would rise from the padded seat of the carriage and rub his head, it was before sunrise, the sky a dark purple and orange. Sleeping in armor was always the absolute worst, but talks of rising panic in Stratholme didn't comfort him at all. He'd road with his Lord and his entourage towards the depths of Lordaeron, passing empty farms and sickly villages and hamlets along the way. The place was diseased, something felt just wrong, and none of them could put a finger to it. He'd exit the carriage as it pulled to a stop. Word had it that the rest of the Silver Hand was mustering behind Lord Uther and the Prince to bring order to the city and quell the riots and panic, but they were only a few leagues behind the Stromic party, having passed them at Corrin's Crossing days before. He'd strap on his blade to his hip and step off the carriage's step, looking at the almost desolate gate of the city. Guards not even remaining at their posts as the sounds of shouting and some sparse fires plumed overheard deeper in the city. The riots seemed to not have ceased since word was given from his brother about the disarray in the city. "Morrigan shouldn't be much further into the city than at the market square. Let's hope we don't meet much resistance." His words were bleak, riots like this were not his forte. Especially after Stromgarde crumbled into chaos as well not but a few years back. Beating down the tides of frantic people as they bounced against his shield. It brought him no pleasure. Silence As they walked the almost abandoned streets, he'd notice signs above doors -- "Sick inside" -- some read. Windows of stores were broken, shattered onto the streets and looted. While other homes had busted down doors and some vagrant children ran about, gaunt and sickly looking. "There is something not right about this place." Sir Horace muttered as the entourage of knights marched into the streets of the hollow city. "How much longer till we find your brother's store, boy?" The old knight's instincts were hardly wrong, something wasn't right here. "Not far, sir." The deeper the delved into the sprawl, the more "sick" signs he'd read. Graffiti plagued some walls of food stores and stalls in frantic paintings, "The food is no good." -- or -- "The fever is taking us all." '' The market square, as Theo could remember, used to bustle and hustle with peddlers and traders. He could remember visiting his brother one Winter's Veil after his training was complete within the Hand. It was truly a place of wonder compared to Stromgarde, but now it was only a husk. Much like the entry of the city, it was desolate, in shambles. But there was little movement here. It was quiet -- too quiet -- and the ever constant feeling of being watched plagued the party. "He lives near the fountain here.." Theodore huffed as they'd approach the smithy. A tall building with an apartment above and a workshop open to the street below. Most of his brother's tools and weaponry had gone missing, probably looted by thieves in the riots. The door to the apartment was wide open, almost off it's hinges and flung inward. "Wait here." He'd grunt and wave back at the party, whom circle the storefront and enter a defensive stance as their brother entered the building. Upon reaching the threshold, he'd notice bloody scratches against the wooden grain of the door. It wasn't kicked open, but forced in from the inside, as though someone tried to escape. Drops of blood littered the floor of the dark corridor as he'd creep inwards, the gore was accompanied by a rancid stink unlike anything he'd of ever smelled before. "Morrigan!?" He'd shout, becoming somewhat panicked as he'd begin to notice more and more blood across the floor. Now at a intersection in the parlor, he'd notice something that drained the color from his face, his nephew lay across the parlor's table. His body mangled and tore asunder as though by a rabid beast. He'd gasp for air, not able to find words -- only a scream. 'Aberrations' Hoarse was his voice as he'd stumble back into the armchair of the parlor, knocking it over and finding it hard to collect himself. The memories of the Orc being savaged flooded his mind, tears swelling across his cheeks as he'd hyperventilate. All the training in the world couldn't prepare him for this horror. He'd tremble as he approached the child, not any older than ten, and ran his armored hand through the boy's blond hair. "Heath.. Oh, by the Light. What.." He'd not be able to finish the verbal thought as something crashed in the kitchenette in the room over. The dark doorway had a figure stumble forth, Theo only managing to squint through tears as he'd notice the visage. "Morrigan! Morrigan, what's happened here?!" The words came out as a shout of fear and plead for an answer -- one that was not given as his brother appeared in the orange light creeping through the parlor's glass window. His body as bloated, grey, and bloody. Eyes resembling those of a dead fish, glossed over and pale, except for the pupils. Those glowed with a sickly yellow aura. Theodore felt fear. More fear than he'd ever felt in his entire life -- the body in his hands moved -- he'd now shake as he gingerly looked down at the once somber body of his nephew looking back at him with those same unholy eyes. The next few moments were a blur as the child lurched for his throat, teeth bared. Any normal man would of froze, but his combat experience and instinct told him it was time to 'run. 'These weren't his family anymore. These were the living dead. Aberrations. He'd pant as rage replaced fear, his men, he needed to get outside. Tossing Heath's wiggling body to into the table with so much force it'd snap a normal person of his age's neck... and it did, yet the boy would struggle and eventually stand haphazardly, join now by his father as they made their slow approach towards him. He'd couldn't bring himself to strike them down with the Light, as much as he'd hurt and be enraged, so he turned to the passage. Now face-to-face with his sister-in-law and her fate was much the same as her family's. He'd grimace and close his eyes as he threw a shoulder into the woman's frail body, sending her into the passage ahead and crumpling against the stairwell. Only to look back and see her slowly getting up again and shambling into the hallway, although they didn't follow him. They stood there. Waiting. But for what he'd never find out until much, much later. Upon leaving the house, he'd slam the door shut and tumbled down the stairs. Horace waited for him below, hooking an arm under his pit and hoisting him back onto his feet. ''"Bloody hell, boy. What's gotten into you?" He'd shake the forlorn knight back to his senses, only to be given the response of; "We must leave, Sir. We must get.. far.. far away from here." ''Theodore's frantic gaze went from house to house. How many families shared the same fate as his? How long had this gone on? What was this curse? He only could assume the silence of the row meant the worst. All of them. They were all gone. And those left would soon follow -- as would them if they stayed. ''"What?" Horace snorted. "Where is your weasel of a brother?" Battle of Market Row As if on queue and demand. The bulkhead behind them creeeeaaked open slowly -- not only that -- as did other homes along the street side. Dark figures stepping onto porches and steps, the smell of death filling the street as it'd waif from their homes in a grotesquely gentle manner. Theodore didn't have to tell Sir Redmayne, the old knight could feel the evil surround them. "Company! Arms at the ready!" One-by-one the knights would draw their blades, the company of Stromic warriors closing in their circle to the center of the street as the once fair citizens of market square surrounded them. That panic returned, only slightly now that he was among his brother. He'd move to draw the Lady of Strom, his blade, and held it in two hands as he'd chant some prayers to the Light and gain it's blessing for the coming battle. "Theodore." The calling of his name came from behind him -- for a moment it's sound like his father -- but he'd look to see Sir Redmayne readying his blade. "We'll make an opening for you. You must get word to the Silver Hand and the rest of the company." As the mob of the dead surrounded the circle of knights, he'd glance between the threat and his mentor. "I can't leave you here, sir!" The senior knight didn't respond to him, just snorted as he'd turn to the company and shout. "Today we fight for our fallen comrades of Lordaeron! We must defy this evil and protect our messenger to the Hand! '''COMPANYYY! HOOOO!'"'' He'd turn red as he shouted even louder. The moment he elevated his voice the mob of undead crowded them, running into the wall of knights. Men screamed as undead tore into their bits of exposed flesh and tore away their weapons with their unholy strength. Blood and viscera flew every which way as men cut into the undead and in turn were torn into and overwhelmed. Theo could only hear his own panting as he'd hack at the undead that broke through the ranks and into the inner circle. Their line was faltering quickly, the initial wave of undead put down, but they'd just begin to rise again. Those who'd suffered wounds falling and screaming as they'd begin to turn at an accelerated rate. Sir Redmayne stood next to Theodore, accompanied by a handful of knights who'd frantically be losing morale. "If you're going to do something, boy... -Now- is the FUCKIN' TIME." Horace hollered as he'd plunge his blade into the gap of one their fallen comrade's armor. The dead seemed everywhere and -way- too organized. It was a trap. A trap for the living... and they were in the spider's web. He'd look down near the corpse piles and see a grate. "Help me heave this open, lads!" Two squires would soon be on his flanks as they pried open the sewer drain from it's lock. Adrenaline helped, especially at this moment. It'd stink, but the smell was pleasant compared to the rot of the undead. He didn't have much choice as Horace shoved him into the tunnel and pushed away the squires, demanding they ready for battle. "We'll cover your escape, Theodore." The old man paused, looking down at the boy. Sorrow riddling the man's features, a farewell. "Do not fail me, boy." ''There wasn't a chance to respond if he even wanted too as the shadows of the dead now surrounded overhead and returned to battle the remaining knights. 'The Belly of the Beast' The underworks of the city felt like they spanned for miles. This journey went so wrong, why was this happening? So many questions burdened his mind as he'd make his retreat. Often finding the occasional pocked rat, their flesh sore and exposing bones. Even the wildlife wasn't safe. Fungal growths that smelled somehow even -worse- than the dead grew down here. Unnatural and sickly spewing their fumes and bile-like ooze. However, he'd seem safe from the undead, at least for now. As he passed under grates to the streets above he'd notice a silence. The trap not yet sprung here, or perhaps the district still held the living? He couldn't be sure, but he wasn't about to stop and find out. Ahead of him he'd see daylight from a large circular drain pour out into the outer moat of the city. Filth coated him as he'd approach it's grates, using the steel hilt of his sword to break the rusty padlock and kick it open, gently would he slide out pass the rushing water and debris. Now making his way to the bank of the forest. His armor literally in shambles from the escape and battle. The undead's strength was surprising, causing heavy dents against the iron plating and making it welt and be near unwearable, so he'd shed the gear down to his tunic and leggings. He'd make his way towards some nearby structures outside the city. The hamlet, there had to be horses there. Something he could commandeer and ride back to Capital City. Weary legs brought him a almost abandoned inn. Some villages lurked around, wariness and distrust spread among them as the city rioted. Especially as filth-clad men crawled into the village from that direction. He'd wait quietly until the stable-hands had returned into the barn nearby and he'd mount the first horse he found. Uncaring if he road bareback or not, discomfort wasn't a concern. Tired and shaking hands wove into the horse's mane as he'd ride. Fatigue setting in as he'd buck up and down on the trotting horse down the road back to Corrin's Crossing and the western province. The last of his company. 'Passage of Time' 'Tap. Tap. Tap.' Theodore's eyes cracked open, one by one as the rasping pelted the door of his hovel. He'd rise from bed and glance over at the women in his bed, eyes bloodshot and weary from drinking the night before. One large hand held tight to the bed post as he'd stagger somewhat. What time was it? The sky still dark outside, but the orange glow of a torch burned on the porch outside. 'TAP. TAP. TAP.' The knocking turning to pounding, like the pressure in his head, he'd groan and growl all at once. ''"I'm COMING. Light's sake.." Glass bottles and mason jar rolled about the floor as he'd move through the cottage, a sign of his worsening benders, but he'd see no point in stopping now. It took some edge off his day. Now adorned in a simple bathrobe in which he'd tie around himself with some linen strips, hand reaching for the door handle. He'd feel himself let out a deep breath. He wasn't good at facing people anymore, as if his courage and confidence died all at once all those years ago. He wasn't certain how long his hand rested on the doorknob, but it felt like an eternity, the orange glow outside the cottage now gone and the knocking ceased completely. Something felt wrong. Cold and wrong. A chilling cloud of breath pooled from his mouth as he'd exhale. That was when the fear set in, he'd look towards the whore in his bed, only to see an empty dent in the blankets and mattress. Tap. Tap.... Tap. "Theodoreeee." Soft, sinister, and waiting. Always waiting. This was a nightmare -- the nightmare -- his failures and negligence, all coming to haunt him. Why? What did it matter? It wasn't his fault. ANYONE would of ran and never looked back, their spirits couldn't blame him. In that moment he'd step away from the door, heel hitting a bottle and sending him backwards into the floorboards. A pain struck him as he'd feel his ankle twist violently. Tears swelled in his eyes as he'd rear back onto his elbows and try to stand. "AGH! -SHIT-." ''However, that was the least of his problems as the door opened with a gentle click, slowly did it creaaaaak on it's way inwards. The pale moonlight filtering through as figures enter the room. One by one. Men -- No, not men. The Dead. Their bloody and ravaged armor clanking and clanging as they'd surround him. The last of them was Horace. The old man was pale and fetid, his jaw somewhat dislocated, causing his voice to gurgle and choke as he spoke. ''"You.. disappoint me.. Boy." ''All Theodore felt was fear as the crowd descended on him. He awoke to screaming, feeling a hand on his cheek, hands instinctively reaching to strangle whomever it was that was touching him. He'd come-to and realize the whore he bought was in his clutches. Almost immediately Theo released her and would go into some form of shock, scooting back on the floor. ''"You fuckin' lunatic! YOU almost killed me!" ''She'd burst into tears and wrapped the sheet around her naked frame, bursting out of his hovel, only stopping at the threshold to throw a bottle at him. ''"You boorish BEAST!" '' ''How far have I fallen? ''The thoughts swam through his head, up until the point that the bottle clonked against his skull. Blood ran down his forehead and onto his robed chest. ''I have failed them. Failed their sacrifice. ''He'd turn his gaze towards the fireplace, gaze set upon the sword mount upon the mantle. It's steel flat adorned with carefully etched runes. 'Honor. Courage. Commitment. 'Both eyes shut for a moment as he'd lean back all the way and lay upon the floor. "''There is work to be done." Physical Description Theodore stands at a solid six-foot-one (6'1"), sporting a head full of auburn locks that hang down around his shoulders in a mane-like manner. His beard, much like his head, is the same auburn color. The scruff covering his entire jawline and meeting his sideburns evenly. It'd seem this man keeps his appearance up and isn't one to fall to slob-like behaviors when not able to be helped. The auburn is met by two piercing green eyes, somber in his gazing, it could be assumed he's seen war and the chaos at least a few times in his lifetime. His build is of an average nature for a traveler, well muscled and seemingly capable of combat when necessary. There are no gimps or grumps with his stature and stride, a lucky man to have fought in previous wars and come out unscathed. The Brother adorns himself in the clergy's grey robes and hood, his holy tome hanging from his belt on his right side, and a rather heavy mace on his left. The maul seemed to be forged of a basic iron and it's grip wrapped in leathers, nothing very assuming about it. Player Information (OOC) * I am Ted / Theodore / Eogrim in-game and Ted in the Grobbulus discord. For contact purposes. * IC =/= OOC. I request you leave your drama at the door for our RP. Talk to me personally if there's a problem. * I love walk-up, scheduled, and just open world RP! However; if leveling, please just drop a message first. * I'm a book of lore and love making storylines! Please network with me and let's do some planning! Author's Note Yes, I'm including a note, cause this was a book. If you read it or skimmed it, I'd like to thank you for taking the time to do so. It means a lot to me. I plan on putting more things like a description and traits within an actual TRP! So catch me in-game for that! This simply is a narrative story of some key-points in Theodore's life. It paints a broad picture of his character and can be freely interrupted as you wish. Have a great day and I hope to see you in the world, Hero. Category:Characters Category:Human Category:Neutral